


The Eyes Have It

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Detective!Stiles, M/M, Optometrist!Derek, warning: brief mild panic attack, warning: eye-puffy machine, warning: pupil dilating drops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1336276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stares at <i>the machine</i>.  The bane of his fucking existence.  The dreaded eye-puffy machine from hell that had almost come between him and a spot in the San Francisco Police Department.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eyes Have It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheVoiceofWrath (meet_your_fate)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meet_your_fate/gifts).



> For TheVoiceofWrath, who had to go to the eye doctor the other day.

"Sir?"

Stiles looks up to see the optometrist's assistant staring at him expectantly and throws the magazine he's been thumbing through to the side. He follows her swaying blonde ponytail through the lobby and around the counter to do the preliminary eye chart reading. When he reads the 20/15 line straight through with no errors, she cocks an eyebrow at him and smirks.

"Well, you're not here for glasses, unless… are you having trouble reading?" she asks, her tone somewhere between flirty and threatening. It's making Stiles feel like an awkward teenager again.

"No, just need to check a box on my yearly physical so the city will keep paying for my health insurance." He tries to smile, but can feel his face pulling into an unwieldy grimace

"Hmm, well, in that case, we have just a couple more tests to run through and you'll be free to go!"

Smoothing a hand through his hair, Stiles nods at her. "Great!"

"If you'll step right over here—" She turns and gestures toward a chair and Stiles just… freezes.

He stares at _the machine_. The bane of his fucking existence. The dreaded eye-puffy machine from hell that had almost come between him and a spot in the San Francisco Police Department. 

Stiles chews nervously on his lip as he contemplates it, then straightens his shoulders and approaches the stool placed in front of the machine. Swinging one leg over, he straddles the stool and sits down neatly, only to flail when the assistant steps on a lever that jerks him to a lower position.

"There!" she says, leaning over his shoulder to adjust something on the machine, her breasts pressed against his back. He feels scratchy all over and wants to shrug, but doesn't want to let her know he's _aware_ of her anatomy. 

He coughs quietly when she finally moves away from him and skirts around the table to take her place on the other side of the machine. 

"Just put your chin here," she says, reaching around and gesturing to the chin holder cup thing, "and press your forehead forward until the light comes on. Then… just keep your eyes open and hold still!"

Stiles takes a deep, cleansing breath and blows it out before doing as she asks. The light blinks on and he forces his eyes unnaturally wide, which makes her chuckle. 

"You'll be fine," she says. "Just one more second… okay. Now, in three… two… o—"

Before she can do more than make the _wuh_ sound in one, Stiles is jerking backward, blinking his eyes furiously against the phantom pain of the puff of air he remembers so vividly from his last visit to the optometrist. 

She pops up from behind the machine, one eyebrow raised. "I didn't get the reading."

"Yeah, I…" Stiles shakes his head, running his hand around the back of his neck and shrugging. "I know. Sorry. Let's try again."

He settles himself, puts his head back up to the machine, and this time makes it as far as two before he's instinctively ducking away from the machine. Spinning around on his stool, he shoots to his feet and walks a few paces away before dropping into a couple of deep knee bends. 

"Are you…? Uh, Mr Stilinski—"

"Detective," he grits out between his teeth, then, hearing how he sounds, turns to her with a wan smile. "Shit. Sorry, I just… really don't enjoy this part."

"Well. No one does, but if you just sit still for a second, I can get the reading and we'll be done." Stiles doesn't think he's imagining the note of irritation in her voice.

"Yeah, no, sure. I mean. A few seconds. Right." Shaking his arms out, he bends sideways at the waist, loosening up before straddling the stool again. "I can do this."

"Uh huh."

Stiles knows his glare will be ineffective what with the machine being between them, but it doesn't stop him from trying to set fire to her ponytail with the force of his mind. She doesn't count this time, but some sixth sense makes him blink just as the machine releases a puff of air.

"You know, I could go get Dr Hale," she offers, her smile all saccharine sweetness with shark-like teeth. "If you're uncomfortable with a woman operating the machine."

"Uh, no, it's not that. Definitely not. Look, I just have zero good memories of this particular torture device, okay? Let's try again." Stiles bites the inside of his lip and leans forward, willing himself to hold still this time. 

Again, he doesn't make it. That time, or the next two.

Finally, the assistant throws her hands in the air and says, "Okay, I'm getting Dr Hale." Stiles can hear her mutter, "I am _so_ not paid enough for this bullshit," just before she hits the swinging door that leads to the examination rooms.

Rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands, Stiles backs away from the eye-puffy machine and lets the frustration that had been building explode through him. Fucking hell, there's no reason for him to react so badly _every damn time_ he's faced with this thing. 

Okay, yes, the first time he'd sat politely through it until the air hit his eye, his eyelashes had been caught in the puff of air and curled backward, stabbing him in the eyeball. And yes, it had hurt, and his eyes had watered for most of his eye exam. But it wasn't like he'd been _shot_ or anything. 

He's _been_ shot. The sad truth is, he'd much rather be facing a perp with a loaded gun right now than that hideously monstrous machine straight out of his worst nightmares. 

Stiles can feel his chest grow tighter the longer he stares at the machine, until his breathing is thin and raspy. A cold sweat breaks out at his hairline and along his upper lip, and his vision goes splotchy. A weak, self-mocking laugh bursts from him just before the door swings open again, showing him a sight that damn near halts his building panic attack on the spot. 

The man that comes striding through the door, his eyebrows drawn together in irritation, is the most beautiful person Stiles had ever seen before in his life. Hollywood's leading men _wish_ they had this guy's face, and unless the way his pristine lab coat strains against his wide shoulders is a complete hallucination on Stiles' part, he has a body to make angels weep.

The man's—he must be the doctor—eyes sweep the room before locking on Stiles, and then his eyebrows do a little dance of concern before he quite literally _leaps_ across the room to Stiles, and— Stiles huffs out a breathless laugh of disbelief—a lock of his jet-black hair falls forward, curling against his forehead. Like fucking Superman.

Only, no, he'd have to be Clark Kent, right? Because he's wearing a hideous pair of glasses that do nothing to detract from the most glorious eyes Stiles has ever seen. Seriously, they can't belong to a human. Human beings don't _have_ eyes with that many colors, do they?

"Detective Stilinski," the doctor says, one large, warm hand curling around Stiles' bicep and gently applying pressure until Stiles is seated on the stool once more. "Hey," he murmurs, capturing Stiles' gaze and holding it, his lips parting just enough to show the flash of teeth behind them. "Just breathe with me, okay? In and out, nice and even. Slow breaths. Come on, you can do it." He slides his hand down to Stiles' wrist, lifting until Stiles' hand is pressed against his chest.

And oh holy fucking mother of mercy, those pecs are rock hard.

"Feel my breathing?" the doctor asks, his voice soft. "Try to match it, okay?"

Stiles just nods, because of course he knows this. He hasn't had a panic attack, even a mild one like this, in years, but it's like riding a bicycle. Not exactly something you can forget. 

When his breathing finally evens out, Stiles can feel the cool clamminess of his skin replaced by the dull burning of an embarrassed blush. "Sorry," he mutters, pulling his hand back. "I just." He stops and flounders, looking for the right words.

But the doctor's smile stops him before he can make a bigger fool of himself. "It's completely disconcerting, right?" Pointing to his glasses, the doctor huffs out a quick laugh and looks down, lips twisting wryly. "I hate it, too. I've had to do it every year for the past ten, and it's no easier now that I know exactly what the machine does and measures and how beneficial it is. Evolution _programmed_ us to protect our eyes. We're not supposed to just _hold still_ while someone shoots at them."

Stiles flails, almost smacking the doctor. "Right?!" Then, feeling like an idiot, he says, "I'm Stiles."

"Derek. Derek Hale," the doctor replies, grabbing the hand Stiles is waving through the air and squeezing it firmly. "So, here's what we're going to do. I can't sign off on your physical for the insurance company until we get this done, but Erica is going to come back out here and work the machine while I bore you into a coma with details about intraocular pressure."

"Inta-what?"

"Exactly!" Derek strides over to the desk and picks up the phone, punching a button before his voice comes over the speakers, cutting into the soft jazz that's been playing in the background. "Erica, you're needed up front." There's an ear piercing whine through the speakers as he sets the handset back into the cradle, but then Erica comes through the door and Stiles is reminded of why he's actually here.

"So, okay, how necessary is this whole… eye-puff thing? I mean, it seems a bit barbaric, honestly," Stiles says, spinning back and forth on the stool, his gaze focused on the machine like it's going to jump up and bite him. Which he's absolutely convinced it might.

"Well, it measures intraocular pressure," Derek says, coming up and placing one hand at Stiles' back and urging him to lean forward. "And the readings can tell us a number of things." His voice is a nice, light baritone, and incredibly works to soothe Stiles' ruffled nerves. 

Before he knows it, Stiles has his chin in the device, staring into the dull light while Derek's voice flows around him, listing all the diseases they can diagnose with different readings from this machine. The air puffs and Stiles jerks away, blinking harshly, but Erica's triumphant shout lets him know it was a success.

"Oh, thank fuck." Stiles breathes out a sigh of relief and turns to Derek, who somehow looks _proud_ of him. He refuses to admit to the warmth that floods him because of it. "Are we done?"

Derek immediately worries at his bottom lip with his teeth, and his entire face looks contrite; even his thick, dark scruff appears disappointed. "I need to dilate your pupils now. How do you feel about eye drops?"

Stiles just stares, because there's no way he can explain to this giant, adorable puppy of a man that there is no way he's putting drops in Stiles' eyes. Stiles doesn't trust _himself_ enough not to blink when the eye drops come out. "Yeah… about that."

"Okay, look, no problem," Derek says, and Stiles is about to droop in relief when he continues, "I'll just put them in like my dad did with me. You won't even know I'm doing it."

"Hah. Yeah, I kinda doubt that." Stiles is already backing away when Derek smiles again and it makes his entire _brain_ stumble, so of course his feet do too. And then he's somehow sitting down in the stool again, and Derek is spinning him around on it. 

When he's sitting with his back to Derek, he feels the press of fingers to his chin and he tips his head back, the top of it coming into contact with firm abs. He can feel every breath Derek takes, and swallows past the inappropriate lust that's kicking in hard.

Hur. _Hard_. Hur, hur.

"So, uh, what…?"

"Just look at my face," Derek says. "Don't worry about anything else, just keep your eyes on mine." 

And it's kind of the easiest thing in the world to do because, yeah, most beautiful person in the world. Wow, what a hardship. But then something warm is dripping into his right eye and Stiles flinches, blinking rapidly to get the shit out of his fucking eye.

"Shh." Derek's somehow on his level, his chest pressed to Stiles' back and his voice rushing soothingly into Stiles' ear. He pets one hand over Stiles' chest—oops, his nipples just perked up at the attention—and pulls him back into a pseudo embrace. "Don't rub your eye," Derek says when Stiles goes to do exactly that. "Let the drops do their thing. How do you feel?"

Trying to lighten the moment, Stiles huffs out a shaky laugh. "Feeling like this might count as a first date." When Derek stiffens behind him and drops his hand from Stiles, he makes a noise and says, "Nah, it's cool. Hell, if we can get through this, I'm thinking I owe you dinner."

Derek's chest vibrates against his back with a laugh. "Hey, I like Thai. You ready to try again?" 

"No?"

The hand is back, rubbing soothing circles as Derek says, "Okay, so why do you have to do _yearly_ physicals? Most of the department only comes in every other year."

"Oh. Yeah. About that. So I have a tendency to get shot. It makes the insurance company nervous. You should see how often they send me in for new psych evals. It's not pretty."

Derek stands up, his face appearing as Stiles tilts his head back again, resting more comfortably against Derek than he had earlier. The look of horror on Derek's face is kinda heart-warming. "Are you serious? You've been shot?"

"Um. Yeah?" Stiles shrugs, and tries to express the sheer amount of non-issue he has with the whole situation. The bullet situation, not the eye drops situation. Because one of these things is not like the other. Bullets aren't nearly as scary as eye drops.

"How many times?" Derek asks, narrowing his eyes.

"A um, a few." Derek's got serious eyebrow game; when he raises one, Stiles is just fucking _compelled_ to answer. "Okay, four times. But one was just a graze!"

Derek is shaking his head in disbelief when the next drop hits his other eye. "Ow, fuck!" 

"Oh, don't be such a baby," Derek says, poking him in his cheek. "A big, strong detective who is apparently bullet-proof should be able to deal with eye drops."

"Oh my god," Stiles moans, and his voice is thick with the tears clouding his vision. Or maybe it's the fact that his neck is still at an awkward angle because he's still got his head pressed all up against Derek's abs. "I had no idea you were an asshole. I'm totally rethinking dinner, now."

A loud snort from across the room reminds Stiles of Erica's presence, and he sits up, blinking. 

"Whatever," she says, flicking a hand toward them. "The two of you deserve each other. Go to dinner, get married, have babies. But for the love of god, stop it with the romcom act, okay? I'm gonna get cavities."

So saying, she grabs her purse and flounces out the door, letting the tinkle of the bell above it have the last word.

"Oh." Stiles flushes and looks at Derek, whose scruff isn't doing much to hide his own red cheeks.

"I forgot she was here," Derek mutters, and slide a glance at Stiles, who can't hold back a grin.

"So. Thai, then?"

A shy smile tugs up the corners of Derek's mouth, even as he shakes his head. "Can't go anywhere 'til I check out your eyes." He slides a little metal doohickey from his pocket and holds it up, shrugging sheepishly. 

"So what you're saying is," Stiles says, stepping closer to Derek until he's legitimately inside his personal space bubble, "you want to gaze deep into my eyes before you let me take you to dinner."

"Well." Derek lifts his instrument and leans in so close Stiles has to stifle a moan because he can _smell_ him and _feel_ him and his breath is ghosting across Stiles' lips and… yeah, there's a situation happening in Stiles' pants, okay? "It's kinda my job."

"Just so you know," Stiles murmurs, fighting a grin, "my job involves handcuffs."

Derek's answering groan is a sweet, sweet sound.

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna come hang out, I do the tumblr thing: [Eeyore9990](http://eeyore9990.tumblr.com).


End file.
